


Where my Demons Hide

by ead13



Series: Carta Thug, Surfacer Trash, and/or Andraste's Herald [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blackwall hates the undead, Cadash hates not knowing how to help, Exalted Plains, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, broken people in love that help fix each other are my favorite, fears, nice fluffy ending as a reward for the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 04:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ead13/pseuds/ead13
Summary: Fighting the hordes of undead in the Exalted Plains triggers traumatic memories for Blackwall. Now she needs to try and figure out how to get him back on his feet.





	Where my Demons Hide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keita52](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keita52/gifts).



> I wanna hide the truth, I wanna shelter you,  
> But with the beast inside there’s nowhere we can hide.  
> -Imagine Dragons
> 
> I realized that Demons by Imagine Dragons is like Blackwall's anthem, and suddenly I just had to write this. Also, while I love and enjoy Blackwall fluff, his romance is my favorite because he DOES have that psychological damage that doesn't just go away, and any relationship with him is going to have to deal with that. It's complicated. It feels grounded in reality.

This wasn’t the first time he’d fought the undead at her side, those sorry shambling corpses overtaken with spirits clinging to their vessels no matter how decrepit. He didn’t really give a damn how Solas felt about the spirits’ feelings; the whole thing was unnatural and quite frankly, disturbing. The dead should rest, not haunt the living. The dead haunted his dreams enough as it was.

Back then, it had been a bit different. Far south in the Fallow Mire, it was an exotic world, removed from his own experiences. In the dark and rain and swamps of lotus among the rocky spires, it was easy to forget that those corpses had once been people who had died and sunken into the bog instead of having a proper Andrastian cremation. Feeling like no people should have been living there, that had helped. There was also the added pressure to rescue the Inquisition soldiers taken by the very much living Avvar. Without time to think, he’d cut down the undead, eyes focused on the clear and urgent end goal while helping to coach an anxious Malika through it. Maker’s balls, he was lucky that he hadn’t given his true fear away back then. They’d ask him why a dead body made him flinch more than any other enemy they’d faced, and at that point he couldn’t possibly tell them the truth.

There was also their jaunt through the Fade. Of all the kinds of demons to face, it HAD to be a fear demon, a creature who could conjure up your worst nightmare… The whole time he was slicing through zombies, he had to internally repeat the mantra that these weren’t even real people, they were just illusions manifested in the twisted landscape; this much was made clear when his companions had revealed that their foes took completely different forms than his own. He put on a brave front, acting like the sort of Warden he ought to be, right to the point of defying the mastermind fear demon as it taunted him. It seemed the others believed his act. He wished he could too. 

He nearly lost composure when the group stumbled upon their own tombstones, inscribed with their personal worst fears. At first it had surprised him when his declared his greatest fear to be himself instead of the undead. He’d wished he was invisible as Malika’s eyes questioned him in concern (though this was quickly forgotten in the events that followed, thank the Maker). It wasn’t until later that night, once they were out of the Fade and trying to sleep on the cold stone floor of a fortress storeroom, that he understood: every undead reminded him of his crimes, but they were crimes he himself had committed. He was the real monster, not them.

Those crimes came to light at last not long ago. Of course, he should never have expected to be able to run forever, nor should he have wanted to be the kind of man that would. Instead of finally being put out of his misery, he was forced to go on living with it. Such a sentence would be unbearable without the love and support of Malika Cadash, but even with her help guilt didn’t go away. His fear of the undead, of himself, remained.

If only he’d known the Exalted Plains contained these pockets of hell, he would have faked sick instead of suiting up for the journey.

Adrenaline was a wonderful thing. At the first pit, the element of surprise kept some of his nausea at bay and fueled his sword arm. Focusing on the Freemen guards, that was key. When the battle was over though, when Dorian cast the fire spell to burn the corpses heaped into piles to prevent possession, there was no hiding behind anything else. Soldiers. Dead in war. War for Celene. War for Gaspard. He fought for coin, but the client played at politics. They killed a man and his family in a field like this. Bodies of retainers, bodies of the family, spread on the ground. Frozen in terror, covered in blood. Not soldiers, but still dead in the plains of Orlais.

He was vomiting before he knew what was happening.

“Thom!” Malika’s sharp voice called out. He couldn’t raise his head to look at the reaction that name must have garnered from Dorian and Cassandra; he was Thom to no one but her, and the name was never used except behind closed doors. Damn, she was concerned if she wasn’t using ‘Blackwall’.

Without looking up, and as he gave a few more dry heaves, he waved at her dismissively.

“I didn’t see him take any substantial blows to the head or abdomen,” Cassandra frowned, circling him. “Are you hurt?” From Cassandra, who had more or less declared to hate him once she knew the truth about him, the prying question was more than he ever expected from her. He figured she didn’t give a shit about what befell his sorry ass.

“No,” he rasped, swallowing hard to try and wash down the bitterness in his mouth. “It’ll pass.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a healing spell?” Dorian chimed from his place at the platform.

“Just worry about setting them on fire!” he snapped, straightening up, roughly wiping any stray droplets from his beard, and staggering forward without ever looking back. His three companions exchanged concerned glances behind him.

“T-Blackwall, are you going to be all right to storm the next rampart?” Malika pressed. “I don’t want you to-”

“Let’s go already and get it over with! Due west, isn’t it?”

“I still have to finish with these corpses, you know.”

Thom swore darkly under his breath. “Then I’ll scout ahead. Something. I’ll meet you on the ridge overlooking the rampart.” 

“Wait, you shouldn’t-” But he was gone, and her words were flung uselessly at his back.

Shit, shit, shit, he shouldn’t be acting like this! As he stormed forward, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know if his headache was related to his sky-rocketing anxiety, but it made it incredibly hard to focus. He was supposed to be the rock for the team, always had been. Malika depended on him for guidance. Dorian was too relaxed, and Cassandra was too brash. If he couldn’t keep it together, someone was going to get hurt on his watch because he wasn’t able to defend them properly. Inhale, exhale, put the thought of the bodies in the back of his mind. Fortunately the smell of the burning flesh was growing faint as he put distance between them.

They soon found him on the ridge as promised; no doubt Malika had spurred Dorian to hurry after he’d taken off. If they expected him to be keeping a vigilant watch on the scene below them, they were surprised to find him staring fixedly in the other direction. “The main pile is to the south by south-west of the rampart. Mage guard, barrier, same deal as before. We focus our attacks there.”

“Are you sure you are-” Malika tried again, but again was cut off.

“I’ve told you, I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with,” he snarled, hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Malika had pretty thick skin given that she’d never built relationships with people enough to care about what they thought, but Thom had proven to be her weakness. Thom had also never been this cold towards her in all the time she’d known him. She’d be lying to say it didn’t hurt. Her companions seemed to recognize this, but before they could reprimand him, he was charging. They helplessly followed suite.

It was going fine until Thom locked blades with an undead warrior wearing the colors of the Empress. Though the skin was stretched taut over bone and dried out as parchment, the soldier had enough hair left on his head to have a recognizable blonde hair color. This, paired with a short, scrawny build, stirred in Thom’s mind the memory of young Guillaume Vernier. Of course, it certainly couldn’t be the same Orlesian soldier who had served under his command; his corpse would have been disposed of in the capital where he was executed for treason in the murder of Lord Calliet. That logic didn’t make any difference, as the blood froze in Thom’s veins. Before he could react, the enemy blade landed.

At first, he didn’t feel it. The terror numbed the pain in his arm as he blindly slashed out. All application of proper technique had fallen out the window by this point, replaced by a primal desperation to defend himself. He finally cut down the corpse with a savage cry. More were coming, and…oh Maker, Felipe and Veronique, Victoire and Auguste, all coming for him, coming to drag him to the grave with them! He disappeared into the blinding fear, his consciousness of the situation sacrificed in the interest of survival.

How long passed since he lost himself, he couldn’t say. He only knew that it was her frightened voice calling his name that brought him back. Even as this registered, he continued to hack and slash at the body before him. The dead had better stay dead, damn it all!

“Thom! Stop! It’s over!” she begged, holding out her hands in a calming gesture. She wouldn’t approach him, not in his current state. She didn’t have to. Malika Cadash was fearless, and Malika Cadash didn’t beg. Something with this scene was very wrong, and it gave him pause. Then and only then did he look down and realize that the body he had been attacking had been reduced to scraps and pieces of flesh. Dorian and Cassandra were staring in shock at his actions, but that much he still didn’t register. Only the bodies, the lifeless bodies…

Some small part of himself wanted to nonchalantly sheath his sword and declare it time to burn the bodies once more, like nothing was wrong at all. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, as he took in the scene of carnage, a ragged sob was ripped from his chest and he fell to his knees. Every muscle in his body trembled. Blood dripped down his injured arm. Seconds later he was retching again, nothing but bile coming from his empty stomach. Make it stop! Make it all stop! No matter how he squeezed his eyes shut, the image wouldn’t disappear from his mind!

“I don’t understand…” Malika intoned numbly as she watched the man she loved completely break, hesitating in her decision to close the distance and wrap her arms around him. Was that what she was supposed to do in this situation, or was it better to give him space?

“I’ve seen this before,” was Cassandra’s grim response as she approached Malika and squeezed her companion’s shoulder in some attempt at comfort. She couldn’t take her eyes off the ailing warrior, her brows furrowed in thought. “Templars and Seekers are sometimes altered by a particularly bloody or traumatizing mission. They can appear completely normal until something reminds them of the incident. The trigger makes them snap, unravel. Some had to be sent home because they were too unstable to continue to serve.”

To Cassandra’s surprise, Thom had been listening. His response was swift, albeit choked, as if he were having difficulty relaxing enough to breathe. “I can still serve, I swear it!” There was a genuine panic in his tear-stained eyes now, terror that his failure to keep it all in check would cost him his place at Malika’s side. “Let’s finish with the last stronghold before they can regroup!” But his entire body was shaking so badly, they all had to wonder if he truly believed he could handle such an undertaking.

“We are going back to camp,” Malika declared firmly. “They will not regroup in such a short amount of time, and you need to get your injury tended to. Also…” Well, how exactly was she going to articulate that she had to get him out of here, get him to calm down, without actually riling him up? “…I need to restock my healing potions,” she finished lamely. Neither Cassandra nor Dorian were going to point out that she still had plenty.

“Please…” he attempted, but never was able to finish, words swallowed, dying in his throat. When she studied his face, she realized that he didn’t even know what it was he wanted.

“Let’s go. Will your wound be all right until we get there?”

Thom nodded mutely. When she finally neared him, he accepted her help to get back on his feet, though he still staggered as he took one step, and then another. It was not easy, but Malika gritted her teeth and did her best to keep him upright as they teetered in the direction of the river. She was perhaps not the best suited to helping support his weight, given her dwarf stature, but Dorian and Cassandra were not going to call that into question either; both recognized that there was a special trust between them far more valuable in this instance than an extra foot of height.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Once they’d arrived at camp, she quickly helped him shed his armor. He had gradually calmed down the longer they’d walked, but remained withdrawn. No one had broken the silence. No sense in aggravating him in such a place as enemy territory. Now, Dorian was on hand to immediately attend to the ugly gash across his left arm, sealing it with the basic spell he knew. “Not as good as Solas,” he admitted, wiping his brow, “but I daresay passable.”

“Strange words to come from you, acknowledging your superiors,” Thom retorted as he inspected the end result, but it was back to being the soft, friendly banter they had come to develop in recent weeks.

“Hmph, you’d better hope it is my usual fantastic standard.” The mage stepped back. “I’m going to go see to Cassandra. I thought I saw a few nasty cuts on her as well. You should rest, Blackwall.” There was nothing snarky or sassy about his words, and Thom absolutely hated that. He wasn’t dense enough to misinterpret what Dorian really meant. Instead of responding, he turned away and slunk towards the tent he shared with Malika, not even bothering to pick up his discarded armor. Malika couldn’t tear her eyes off of him, the sagging of his typically strong shoulders causing an uncomfortable pinch in her chest. Everything about this was wrong.

Dorian cleared his throat, getting her attention back. “I assume you’re going to go figure out what’s going on?”

She blinked, attempting to get out of her own head. Few things pissed her off more than her own helplessness. Maybe a normal person would know what to do? Maybe she was clueless because of how she had been raised to be callous to the feelings of others? Now the person she cared about most in the world needed her and she had no idea of how to reach him. “Yeah. Just wish I knew what the hell to do,” she growled, clenching her hands into fists. 

“Cadash, none of us know what to do,” Dorian insisted, sensing her frustration and softening his tone. “Thing is, he trusts you more than anyone. If there is a person who can reach him, it will be you. Trust in that.” With this said, he finally took his leave.

Slowly, as if in a trance, she turned her sights towards the tent and began to follow where Thom had gone. Maybe she could say nothing. Maybe they could just sit there and that would be good enough? He’d calm down, things would be back to normal, they’d never have to mention it had happened. She just wouldn’t take him out to that last rampart is all. Sure, he wouldn’t like that idea, but it would be quickly forgotten in a few days, she was certain. Where she was concerned, he was quick to yield. 

She paused as she reached for the tent flap. No. That wasn’t good enough. Thom was suffering, and he needed to know he had someone to help him deal with it, even if that someone was no expert. If she claimed to love him, she couldn’t pretend nothing was wrong even if it was the easiest course of action. Malika steeled her resolve and pulled the flap back.

Thom was lying on his back on his sleeping roll, big rough hands covering his face, fingertips kneading into his forehead. Even though he was calmer, his breath was still shaky in his chest. “Thom?” she inquired quietly, not wishing to scare him with her sudden presence. Being a rogue did have its downsides. “Do you have a headache? Can I get you something?”

“It’s fine, my lady. Don’t worry about me. Just go get your healing potions.”

To be honest, that was exactly the sort of response she expected he’d give. It would be so easy to play along. It seemed to be what they both wanted. But it was also a lie and they’d both had enough of those. She entered the tent now, letting the flap fall back in place. “Bull shit, Thom Rainier. One, everyone knows it is not fine. Two, I know you know I didn’t actually need any more healing potions.”

His body tensed. “Okay, maybe it’s not fine, but it’s not something I intend to burden you with. I burden you enough as it is. Please just forget about it.”

“Well, look at it this way.” Malika sat down on her own bedroll next to his, sitting cross-legged on the ground. “You’ve got me worried, and the only thing that is going to make me less worried is if you talk to me.”

“Look, it’s simple and it’s pathetic. You remember what I told you that night at Adamant, back when we’d just stepped out of the Fade? I’m scared of the undead, that’s all there is to it. I freaked out, and I failed you.” She could hear his voice straining again, but he still hid his face so she couldn’t read his eyes. To put even more space between them, he rolled over to his side facing away from her.

“You’ve never failed me. In fact, you’ve always carried me. So what if this time you faltered?” There was no response. Shit, this wasn’t working! She wasn’t reaching him! He was closing himself off! She panicked then, and instinctively did what she had always been trained to do from a young age. She scooted closer and got on her knees, allowing her hands to begin massaging his tight shoulders. “It’s okay. Let me help you,” she whispered in his ear as her hands sensually wandered down the front of his chest. She pressed a kiss to the hard line of his jaw while a thumb flicked over the nipple under his linen shirt. “I can make you feel better…”

“No!” He shocked her by jolting out of her grasp, tumbling to his hands and knees, then promptly flat on his ass. She couldn’t stifle the gasp of pain caused by her attempt going horribly wrong, and his now wild eyes saw tears forming in her own.

“I-I’m sorry, I thought…” Her voice trembled on the verge of a breaking, and that was the last straw for him. Malika didn’t cry, but here he had pushed her to that point.

He lost it. He clutched his hands over his mouth to try and suppress another sob. He couldn’t suppress the tears that streamed from his eyes. “I’m sorry, Malika, I’ve hurt you… I’m no good, all I do is cause you pain…”

“What can I do for you, Thom?” she begged, a stray drop falling from her eye as she ignored his frantic apologies. “All I want to do is help you, but I’m so broken I don’t even know how! Fuck, tell me what I should do!”

He had just enough sense left to put the pieces together. What Malika had attempted was not pity, but her flawed way of trying to help in the only way she understood. And here he had cut her with his instinctive response! This only made him weep harder. “If you can stomach it…I want to…I need to…hold you…” he gasped. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than she launched her compact body at him and wrapped her arms around his chest, letting her head fit neatly under his chin. His resulting grip on her was enough to squeeze some of the breath from her lungs, but still she held firm. This was what he needed, so this is what she would do.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated like a mantra. She could feel his entire body shaking as hot tears fell onto her scalp.

“I’m sorry too,” she responded, muffled against his chest.

After a few minutes, the worst of the storm seemed to pass. He began to mumble into her hair. “Dead bodies, they remind me of my men. Of Calliet’s family. I just can’t seem to escape them. I see them and I feel like they are out for me. I can’t handle the guilt, it’s too much…”

There. There it was. Dead bodies weren’t just scary, they held a significance, they were tied to something traumatic, and it all made sense to her. It gave her an idea, and she hoped it would be better than her last one.

“That same night at Adamant, I told you spiders scared me, right?”

Finally, he pulled away so he could look into her face. His eyes were bloodshot, but still they searched her intently. “And I thought ‘so innocent a fear compared to mine’.”

She snorted, her normal attitude starting to rejuvenate. “More like ‘how lame a fear’. But there’s actually a reason behind the whole spiders thing, just like you have a reason for yours. When I was young, just barely old enough to remember, I was put on my first pickpocketing assignment. As you could guess, I didn’t exactly do well on my first attempt. I got caught, roughed up a bit by my target, and came back to the hideout empty-handed. That did not sit well with the Dasher.” Thom narrowed his eyes, but continued to listen without interrupting. “For my failure, I was locked in an old storeroom, for how long it was impossible to say. It was pitch black, and I was just a kid, so what felt like forever probably wasn’t that long. No food, no water. But the worst part…” Malika shivered in his arms. “The crawling on my skin. I remember seeing the spiderwebs, pulling at them as I felt around in the dark. I know what was crawling on me as I sat in that room was spiders. You never knew when or where they would strike. It was horrible and I still can’t stomach them even if they are like fifty times bigger and I can see them coming.” She pulled away and gave a sad smile as she stroked his bearded cheek. “And I’ve never told that to anyone except you, so congratulations.”

Every time he thought he knew all there was to know about the pain of Malika’s past, something new seemed to pop up. The only silver lining to this was that it always took his mind off his own past and kindled flames of anger to replace the hopeless remorse. The sudden urge to kiss her overtook him, and she didn’t seem to protest when he pressed his mouth to hers with a fierce passion. Then, he broke away. “I wish I could take that fear away from you, erase that pain, but I know I can’t. So you need to understand that you can’t take my fear away either, and that’s okay. You’re doing everything you can, and that’s more than enough for me.”

“I can try. Thom, I won’t let you go to that last rampart,” she declared seriously. She gently reached up and wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eye. “I won’t let you suffer through it for my sake.”

“But you don’t have anyone else to fill your formation,” he predictably protested. “Someone will get hurt…”

“I’m not the only one who’s worried. Cassandra and Dorian don’t want to see you suffer like that again either. They will actually fight better if they don’t have to worry.”

He hung his head. “I’m a burden…”

“You will help us in our endeavor for goodwill with the Dalish. I want you to carve some toys to give to the children of the clan over in the plains. We need an ally out here, and they need to know that someone cares about them beyond just the elves. Can you do that for me?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I’ll worry about you every second I’m not at your side…”

She wanted to say that she could take care of herself, but that wasn’t what he needed to hear. Instead, she settled on “I know you will. But I need you to trust me. I don’t like the idea of leaving you behind any better than you do, and part of me wants to be selfish and take you with me regardless of the consequences. However, watching you go through what you went through today hurt me worse than any blade or arrow. Please, Thom.”

He let out a shuddering sigh. “As you wish, my lady.”

“Thank you.” She stretched up to kiss him again, this time just a soft peck on the cheek. “For all of it. For being honest with me. For not pushing me away.”

His strength was rapidly declining, all of his energy spent in combat with the undead and his own panic attack. Before he fell back to the sleeping roll, he took her in his arms and lowered her down with him. “If I can be selfish, I’m going to hold you closer, not push you away. Stay with me a while?”

How could she say ‘no’ to those pleading eyes? “Anything for you.” He seemed to melt into her touch as she smoothed several loose strands of hair out of his face.

His eyes were only half-open now, exhaustion finally winning out. He gave one final squeeze before they closed all the way. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” That was the easiest those words had ever come from her, but to her disappointment she noticed he was already asleep. Ah well, it couldn’t be helped. She snuggled closer and let herself appreciate being needed in this way. If this is what it took to calm his demons, it was hardly a sacrifice.

**Author's Note:**

> Anybody else try to come up with a reason for their Inquisitor being afraid of spiders, given the form of the fear demons that they see in the Fade?


End file.
